


The Splinter

by MoonBeams



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Fighting for Dominance, M/M, Oral Fixation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock is bossy, This is the closest I get to writing 'no shit Sherlock' in a fic, Top John Watson, Topping from the Bottom, Yes he does both, a bit cracky, sherlock begs, they both love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 01:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBeams/pseuds/MoonBeams
Summary: A pwp exploring how one little thing can change everything for Sherlock and John... Featuring Sherlock being bossyandbegging, dirty talk, John’s oral fixation, fighting for dominance and a side order of mild crack.





	The Splinter

“Joooooohn!” 

This, howled up the stairs at a frankly impressive volume (Sherlock has never cared about the neighbours) and an honestly surprisingly high pitch, considering Sherlock has a voice deeper than all the coal mines of the North put together, which sounds exactly like how John thinks treacle and sex would sound. It’s also a voice which is currently in large amounts of pain. For approximately half a second John considers not rushing to Sherlock's aid, but the madman was doing an experiment with highly caustic acids, so John is down the stairs before his petulant thought has even fully formed. He likes Sherlock's hands as they are (quite a lot, ta) and he’d rather not deal with a moody genius recovering from third degree acid burns. 

He has his phone out ready to call an ambulance to get them to the nearest burns unit, so he’s surprised, therefore, to get downstairs and find Sherlock sprawled in a rather ungainly manner on the floor, barefoot pulled up close to his face to glare at it as if it has committed every atrocity in the universe since the dawn of time. John spares a brief thought for Sherlock’s unto-now-unknown flexibility (best not to think of these things around him) then moves cautiously towards him, a little wary of the heat of his glare.

“Sherlock? You alright?”

“I have a _splinter_ , John,” Sherlock replies, spitting out the word ‘splinter’ with more venom than he usually affords the word ‘Mycroft’.

“Right, okay. Um.” It _had_ sounded like he was in extreme pain. “Definitely no acid burns.”

“What? No. I have a splinter the size of the Shard lodged in the bottom of my foot.”

“So… what do you want from me?”

“Get it _out_ , John!” Sherlock's foot is extended with force towards John and he has to quickly step back to avoid being kicked.

This is a prime example of Sherlock's drama queen behaviour. 

John sighs exasperatedly. “The tweezers are in the bathroom, Sherlock. I’m sure you know what to do with them.”

He turns to go back up to his bedroom.

“John, no, don’t leave me!” A pause. “Please?”

Damn him. Sherlock tries so hard to be immune to Sherlock's small ‘pleases’ and puppy dog eyes (he knows if he turns around now there will be puppy dog eyes), but Sherlock is just too good at convincing him. No. Scratch that. John is just too bad at resisting him. He turns.

“I can’t walk to the bathroom. My foot will _kill_ me.”

Yep. There are the puppy dog eyes. John wants to say something smart like ‘try getting across the desert with a bullet in your shoulder and then cry to me about getting to the bathroom with a splinter in your foot’, but with the big puppy dog eyes staring imploringly up at him the best he can manage is, “Crawl”. 

It comes out croaky and hoarse thanks to his inner battle against the puppy dog eyes. But it makes Sherlock's pleading face drop and be replaced with a wide-eyed look of… something else. It’s gone within a second though, before John can place it.

“No.”

And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against Sherlock. 

“Fuck it.”

He’s not as fit as he used to be perhaps, but Sherlock runs him around London often enough, so scooping six foot of lanky drama-queen-toddler up off the floor isn’t _too_ much of a challenge. And it’s totally worth it for Sherlock's squeak of surprise which he’ll later insist he didn’t make. He carries Sherlock to the bathroom and deposits him unceremoniously on the edge of the tub. He’s pleased to note that Sherlock's cheeks are slightly flushed; maybe his embarrassment will stop him from acting like such a child. 

The tweezers are plucked from their place and John kneels and holds out an imperious hand. “Give me your damn foot.”

Hesitantly (and John has never seen Sherlock do anything hesitantly before), Sherlock lifts his foot and rests the heel in John's outstretched hand. For the first time John is able to see the splinter that has apparently made Sherlock's life hell.

Admittedly, it’s fairly large, as splinters go.

“What splinter?” John asks, causing Sherlock to splutter in outrage before he realises that John is teasing and flushes a deeper shade of pink. John smirks and pointedly doesn’t think about other ways he could make Sherlock that pretty shade of pink.

He settles into the job at hand (or should that be foot?), gets a hold on the splinter with the tweezers and carefully draws it out of Sherlock's foot.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says, standing to put away the tweezers. “I’m sure you could’ve done it yourself with how, um… flexible you are.”

Damn it. Now he’s thinking about bending Sherlock in half in bed, again. Not while in the same room as Sherlock! That’s the rule. 

“Oh for God’s sake, John!” Sherlock suddenly explodes, slamming his now-splinter-free foot to the floor with a bang.

“Wh–”

“Would you please stop being so obvious but refusing to do anything about it?! I’m dying of impatience here.”

This is annoyed drama queen Sherlock out in full force. John is baffled.

“I… Refusing to do anything about what?”

Sherlock makes a noise of pure irritation normally reserved for Anderson, stands up, grabs John's shoulders and kisses him soundly.

John is so shocked that he completely forgets to react. A split second later, Sherlock is pulling away. John has never seen him look so young, so unsure, so nervous, so vulnerable.

“I didn’t read you wrong?” he asks.

For a moment John gets lost in his eyes, which are similar to his puppy dog eyes, but in an innocent, non-manipulative way capable of making John's heart melt. But he snaps out of it for Sherlock's sake, who is looking more and more uncomfortable the longer John leaves him in this state of nerves. He raises his hands to cup Sherlock's face.

“I thought I was hiding it well. When have you ever read me wrong?” He stretches up and kisses Sherlock's lips softly.

“But why would you want to hide it?” Sherlock mumbles against his lips.

John pulls back. He could kiss that little crease of confusion between Sherlock's eyebrows. In fact, he might.

“Well, _someone_ told me that they were married to their work.”

The confused crease makes way for an imperious eye roll. “I didn’t know you then.”

“And now?”

A soft smile. “And now you remove my splinters.”

John can’t help but kiss him for that. “What gave me away?” he asks between kisses, now working his way along Sherlock's jawline.

“Your uh–” (Sherlock's breath catches at a sensitive spot) “–your face when you saw my range of flexibility. It spoke volumes. And you couldn’t stop looking at my lips.”

“Maybe because you were pouting so much.”

“I was not pout–ngh!”

John grins and leans back to examine the mark he’s sucked on Sherlock's neck.

“Perhaps we should leave the bathroom,” Sherlock suggests, attempting to regain a measure of dignity. 

John steps away, hooking a finger into Sherlock's trousers and tugging him with him. The blush returns to Sherlock's cheeks, which is adorable. It turns out he wasn’t embarrassed at being carried earlier after all. He likes being manhandled. Sherlock's hands fly to John's shoulders for balance and then cling on, both pulling John closer while pushing him away towards his bedroom.

“Mm, you know,” John says, after a particularly sharp bite to Sherlock's collarbone which makes him rather vocal, “I’d carry you to your room because I think you’d enjoy that, but my back isn’t what it used to be.”

“Don’t care, walking is quicker,” Sherlock replies, despite the fact that they’ve ended up against the connecting door fumbling with each other’s shirts and not much closer at all to their original goal.

John is really quite enjoying being pressed up against the door by Sherlock's tall, solid body, especially when Sherlock's desperately shaking fingers slip off John's buttons and he curses under his breath.

“Do that again,” John moans, head thudding back against the door.

“What, fail to undo your shirt?” Sherlock says, successfully undoing it.

“Idiot,” John says, too breathless to be insulting. “No, the swearing.”

Sherlock's shoves John's shirt off his shoulders and levels his scar with a look that says he’ll be coming back to that later. There’s a glint in his eyes. “Mmm, you don’t hear me swear often, do you?”

John shakes his head and silently begs his knees not to give in when Sherlock ducks his head and sucks on a nipple. The grin on his face when he straightens back up is positively evil.

“Fuck me, John.”

“Fuck,” John echoes, apparently the only word in his vocabulary now. 

“I know you want to,” Sherlock says, and he finally opens the door between the bathroom and his bedroom, sending John tumbling through. “When you saw how flexible I was you imagined all the different ways you could have me. And trust me, John, if you warm me up enough I’ll be even more flexible than that.”

John, who caught himself mid-stumble, can only watch as Sherlock prowls towards him, slowly shedding his shirt like the male model in a perfume ad. His mouth fills with saliva. Fuck, Sherlock is gorgeous and he wants to _taste_. When Sherlock reaches him, he drops to his knees and grabs Sherlock's hips, pressing his mouth open and wet against the bulge in his trousers.

“Oral fixation. Should’ve known,” Sherlock moans, as John tongues at him.

“Mmm,” John says, mouth vibrating against Sherlock's trousers. “How?”

Sherlock remembers that he should breathe and sucks in a great lungful of air. “Lips,” he gasps. “You lick your lips a lot. When I’m deducing.”

John looks up through his eyelashes at Sherlock and slowly licks his lips.

“Please,” Sherlock says breathlessly.

John grins. “Are you _begging_ , Sherlock?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and puts on the haughtiest expression he can manage when flushed, ruffled and out of breath, which is to say, not very haughty at all.

“I suppose since you asked so nicely…” John says, and undoes and pulls down Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock's cock, when John pulls it out of his pants, is hot and hard. It’s thicker than John imagined (he’s been imagining for a surprisingly long time) and speaking of _surprisingly long_ … But John has always been one for a challenge, so he wraps a hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, cautions his gag reflex not to let him down, and swallows as much of Sherlock's dick as he can manage. Sherlock's knees buckle and John would smirk if he could. He’s always been good with his mouth. And for a very long time he’s been keen to show Sherlock just how good he is. Now that he can, he’s going to make the absolute most of the opportunity. 

Slowly twisting his hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, John hollows his cheeks and sucks. Light pressure at first; he doesn’t want to rush this and he’ll save the best for last. Above him, far above him, Sherlock groans. John can detect the slight impatience lingering just behind the noise. Of course Sherlock would expect everything to be fast and hard. John is going to teach him how slow and deep can also be a good option. 

He gently nudges Sherlock backwards until he’s sitting on the bed. His cock slides out of John's mouth with a pop when he sits, and he gasps at the rush of cold air, but John quickly slides back down on him. He bobs up and down on his cock, hand working in tandem. It’s quite amazing really, he’s getting noises out of Sherlock that he never imagined Sherlock could produce, let alone that John would hear. It makes John wish that he had his own mind palace where he could file them away and replay them over and over.

“John, John.” Sherlock pushes at John's shoulder urgently and John slides off him again.

“Yes?” he says, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, and he has that little pinch of concentration around them. His mouth is hanging open and gasping for breath, his cheeks are flushed a beautiful shade of pink which is spreading down his neck and chest.

“Too close,” he says breathlessly.

“You’re gorgeous,” John says.

Sherlock opens his eyes then, and looks down at John as if he’s presented him with a locked room triple serial murder.

“Get up here immediately.”

“Bossy.”

Sherlock drags John up, tugs him in by his belt loops. “I need you out of these right this second.”

“Yes sir,” John says, giving half a salute but more concerned with shoving his jeans and pants down and kicking them away. His cock is free now. Thank fuck for that, things were getting just a little tight down there.

Sherlock is staring. 

“You too,” John prompts, and Sherlock wriggles out of the trousers and pants which are already halfway down his thighs.

Sherlock moves then, grabs John's hips and pulls. John falls against him and presses him flat against the bed, biting at Sherlock's full lower lip.

Sherlock is so responsive. John had no idea that he’d react like this to all the touching and attention. He’s arching up against John, keeping their bodies pressed together as much as physically possible. It honestly makes John feel a bit heady. He has the power to make Sherlock like this, and he thinks (hopes) that Sherlock wouldn’t let go like this for anyone else. Just how much of this has he done before anyway?

“Stop thinking about my sexual history,” Sherlock says, staring up at John. “I assure you it’s varied enough to have a grasp on what to do.”

“Deducing me even during sex?”

“Oh, you will _enjoy_ that I deduce you during sex,” Sherlock replies, punctuating the word enjoy with a delicious roll of his hips.

John groans, eyes dropping shut. He opens them again a moment later with renewed purpose. 

“I want to taste more of you.”

“Be my guest,” Sherlock says, eyes darkening as he watches John slip further down his body.

John latches on to Sherlock's nipple and sucks, not hard, but insistent. Sherlock's hips push up as he groans.

“You can taste me there as much as you want,” he breathes.

“I’ll remember that,” John replies, and switches to the other nipple.

When he has Sherlock squirming he moves down further, mouthing over tense abdominal muscles. He bypasses Sherlock's cock in favour of licking along a hipbone. Then small, teasing kisses down his thighs, which have fallen open and are quivering. A warm hand over one knee, a playful nip at an ankle, then John reaches Sherlock's feet, lifts one and drops a kiss right where the splinter was, shooting a cheeky look up at Sherlock. Sherlock surprises himself by bursting into a giggle. He almost immediately sobers up, pressing his lips together.

“You’re allowed to laugh,” John says, kissing that spot again.

Sherlock's expression says that he’s not sure he agrees.

“Whatever anyone’s told you before, you are,” John insists.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs. “Now stop being so serious and get back up here to kiss me.”

John is more than happy to comply. Sherlock is, of course, a very quick learner, and already he’s mapped out all of the sensitive spots on John's neck and chest. He seems to also have set himself the challenge of covering each and every one of these sensitive spots with a lovebite. Soon, John is peppered.

“Mnh.” Sherlock pulls away from sucking a mark high up on John's collarbone. They’re both lazily rocking against each other, against whatever bit of flesh they can easily reach.

“I could spend _hours_ in bed with you,” Sherlock says. “I’ve never done that before. Or wanted to. But there’s so much data to collect.”

“That sounds like my kind of experiment,” John replies vaguely, concentrating more on feeling the play of muscles in Sherlock's abdomen as he rocks against John.

“I distract you,” Sherlock says in that smug, proud voice.

“Constantly,” John murmurs.

Sherlock makes a _hmm_ of contemplation, then hooks a leg around John's and smoothly flips them over. John's arousal sparks.

“Do you want to know how else I’m going to distract you?” Sherlock asks, looming over John. “I’m going to ride you slowly until you’re going insane with the need to come.”

John is sure he couldn’t be any more turned on than this. “So you’re coming around to the idea of slow and steady then?” he asks, not so steadily.

“I want to drive you mad with need,” Sherlock replies. “I want to see your face when you finally get release.”

“Christ, I should’ve known you’d be a nightmare in the bedroom.”

“A nightmare?”

“In the best possible way.”

Sherlock is gorgeous like this, just stunning. He’s flushed, breathless, wanting, and every time John praises him he glows just a little bit brighter. It’s like when he’s finished a string of deductions and John can’t hold back his wonder, except more, better.

John told himself he’d be patient, but right now he needs to consume Sherlock, be surrounded by him.

“Lube?” he asks.

Sherlock leans over him to dig in a bedside drawer. John licks the chest presented to him.

“Mmn.” Sherlock comes back to centre and waggles the lube at him. “I’ve been practising.” 

“Oh, have you?”

Images flash into John's head of Sherlock writhing, sweating on these sheets with his fingers inside himself, thinking of John. Moaning. Moaning his name?

“Yup.” Sherlock smirks as if John's thoughts are written clear across his face. They probably are. 

John takes the tube from Sherlock and flips it open. “Well. These fingers may be shorter than yours, but they find exactly what they need to.”

“I’m counting on it.” Sherlock is trying to maintain their banter, but it’s a poor effort when it’s that breathless.

John moves his slicked-up fingers down, down, and circles them around Sherlock's hole. Sherlock shudders, eyes dropping closed.

“Yes?” John asks, once he feels Sherlock relax into his touch.

“ _Yes_.”

John slips in just the tip of a finger. Sherlock, impatient as ever, wriggles his hips, trying to get more. John gives him a look, somewhere between doctor and soldier, that manages to get him to stop. He’s not going to drag this out any longer than it needs to be because, honestly, he’s desperate to be inside Sherlock. But he won’t hurt him either.

It’s not long before Sherlock's hips are rolling slowly, sinking further onto John's finger. He’s adjusting quickly; he clearly wasn’t lying about practising. John slips in a second fingertip, waits for Sherlock to adjust to the extra stretch, and gradually works him open.

Sherlock is tight and warm around his fingers. John can feel his internal muscles shifting and moving as he rolls his hips. And God, he has his fingers _inside Sherlock_. For a second he’s hit with the shock of that, of how it’s finally happening, what he thought would never happen. Shock so strong it feels like a physical blow.

“I thought you were meant to be concentrating on me,” Sherlock pants.

“I am,” John replies. “It’s just– this is–”

Sherlock swoops down and steals his words with a kiss, hot and deep. “I know,” he says, when he breaks away again.

The moment sits between them, heavy, buzzing with possibility, but comfortable. Then Sherlock wriggles his hips with a cheeky, infectious grin that John has never seen before and the moment dissolves.

He works in a third finger. Sherlock is too far gone now to complain about John taking his time, his eyes fluttering and his hips working.

“Ready?” John asks.

“I’ve been ready for _months_ ,” Sherlock replies.

John grins and pulls his fingers out. Sherlock kneels up and away from him and grabs the lube from where it was abandoned on the duvet. John watches his chest rise and fall, fast like they’ve just chased a criminal. His own is the same, he notices, quick with anticipation. 

Sherlock's hand, warm and slick with lube, wraps around John's cock. John's head thumps back into the pillow as he groans. One slow, agonising stroke later John is lubed up, and Sherlock is sliding down onto him in a smooth, endless movement. John swears, a long stream of every swear word he knows, including the ones he picked up in the army. Sherlock's eyebrows are slightly pinched as he adjusts to the fullness of John inside him.

“I agree,” he says.

“Slow and steady?” John says. He’s not sure he’ll be able to manage slow and steady though, not with the tight-hot-yes of Sherlock around him.

Sherlock lifts up slightly and slides back down with a small throaty noise. John's hands slide up his thighs, knees to hips, and grip there. He doesn’t try to control (when could he ever control Sherlock?), he lets Sherlock set the pace, follow through with his intention to drive John crazy.

Sherlock isn’t always a whirlwind. He will quite contentedly spend long hours monitoring a slow-progressing experiment. Sometimes he lies on the sofa and his brain doesn’t seem to be a hive of activity like it is when he’s visiting his mind palace. John thinks that very few people have ever seen him quiet and patient like this. John is a rare someone who is privileged to.

Sherlock's hips roll slowly and settle into a pace that’s like oozing through honey. It feels gorgeous, just enough to send shivers sparking up John's spine, but not so much that it feels like a frantic, hurried mess. John's fingertips flex with each roll, tighten and press into Sherlock's skin. His own hips work in tandem, muscles flexing as he rocks up to meet Sherlock halfway.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, but broken-sounding, in the best way. “Like that.”

His eyes flutter and he forces them open again to look down at John. It’s his deducing look, but hazy, not as concentrated.

“You’re enjoying this,” he begins.

“Yeah, no shit,” John groans.

“You like being the one who’s topping while also surrendering control to me.”

“Surrendering control,” John says, “for now.”

Sherlock's eyes widen and John grins. “And _I_ deduce,” John says, with a sharp roll of his hips, “that you will enjoy me taking back control very much.”

Sherlock curls closer over John with a moan, fingers scraping against his chest. John can see the sheen of a light sweat spreading over him, can see the flush reddening his cheeks and chest, can see his full cock bobbing as he rides John slowly. Fuck.

“Fuck,” John says.

“You’ve only just realised what we’re doing?” Sherlock asks.

John swats him on the thigh, a light slap to reprimand him, and Sherlock freezes, eyes wide and body tense. Then he starts riding John again with renewed zest.

“Ah,” John pants. “I’ll remember that one.”

“I hope so,” Sherlock groans.

He could flip them now, pin Sherlock to the mattress and take control. But he’s enjoying this so much. A part of him wants to see just how long Sherlock could drag this out for, how long he could tease John. At the rate they’re going now, it wouldn’t be very long.

He doesn’t have a good concept of time right now, but he holds out for what he thinks might be thirty, forty seconds of bliss. Then he slides his hands, one to Sherlock's thigh, one to his shoulder and (in a well-practised move) flips Sherlock onto his back.

Sherlock's wide, dark eyes stare up at him, all pupil with only a sliver of silver. He seems to be hastily processing, cataloguing, or trying to. His stare is too hazy for it to be fully working. John starts thrusting, mirroring Sherlock's slow but steady pace from before, drinking in the sight of his genius almost short-circuited by John's cock in him. Sherlock's arms wrap around his back and clutch at him.

“Johnnn.”

John leans down. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock nudges at John's head. “Kiss me,” he commands.

John grins and does so, sinks into the kiss and sinks into Sherlock. It’s hot, sticky, heady. He wants to suspend this moment forever. Sherlock is picking up John's best kissing tricks now, and John's never had anyone do _that_ tongue move back to him, but no wonder it drove all the girls crazy. It’s certainly driving him crazy now. He can’t help thrusting a little faster, a little harder, a little deeper. Sherlock's nails trace down John's back. John pulls Sherlock's legs up, around his waist, using that newly-discovered flexibility while also getting in a grope of his thighs. He slides in deeper with the new angle and they moan in chorus. Sherlock tangles a hand in John's hair, tugs, sucks a sharp mark on the corner of his jaw.

“Keep going,” he gasps.

“God, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve seen,” John says, propping himself up on an arm to watch Sherlock as he thrusts into him.

“Mmnnghhh,” Sherlock replies, rather incoherently.

This is it. The moment when they’ve found the angle that’s working _just right_ for both of them and they’re pelting along the finishing stretch. Months and months and years of silently simmering attraction finally boiling over. 

“You didn’t get me begging,” John says, as they near the edge.

“Another time,” Sherlock pants in reply, distractedly.

He turns his head on the pillow, curls splaying out and sticking to his damp forehead. His fingers clench on John's arse and arm. His legs tighten around John's waist. John works a hand between them and around Sherlock's cock, strokes in time with his thrusts. Sherlock squirms, his back arches, he groans John's name. His breaths are tiny gasps, eyes squeezed shut. John can feel how tense he is. He’s right there with him, balancing on the edge.

“Sherlock,” he groans. “Come. Come for me.”

With a shout, Sherlock's hips jerk and his cock pulses in John's hand, painting stripes of come between them. Just watching him is enough to tip John over the edge after him, moaning as he comes deep inside Sherlock. 

They gradually come down from their high, John's hips still working slightly. Sherlock's inner muscles flutter against his cock, drawing quiet moans from both of them. John stills and looks down at his new lover.

Sherlock's mouth is hanging open, catching his breath, his lips rosy and kiss-swollen. His eyes are closed, long eyelashes fanning his cheeks, which are still tinged pink from their exertions. His face is relaxed, young, sated. God, he looks _beautiful_. He looks like a statue or a work of art in one of the many museums that John was dragged around as a kid, that was he allowed to look at but not touch. But now, finally, he _can_ touch.

John slides a finger down Sherlock's cheek, smiling to himself. Sherlock cracks open one eye, does one of his quick-take-up-and-down observations.

“You’re covered,” he says, his one eye focused on John's neck and chest.

“And whose fault is that?” replies John.

He wants to see his reflection in a mirror, see just how much Sherlock has covered him in marks and claimed him. But not yet. Not now that he’s got a warm, happily well-fucked Sherlock in bed with him.

“It’s my fault,” Sherlock says, sounding ridiculously proud of the fact. He slings an arm around John's shoulders and drags him down into a limp, slightly sweaty embrace.

There is nowhere else he would rather be, John thinks, as he sends a thought of thanks to the splinter that started it all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to BlackPearl (kezzzx on tumblr) for the beta, and for leaving the comment 'awful, just awful' on my hand/foot pun. 
> 
> You can find me at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com, hit me up!
> 
> (and let me know in the comments if you enjoyed it. pwp is not my usual thing but this just kinda happened)


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